22. Galahad
Galahad
A car turned onto the lane. I’d been watching from the window for the past twenty minutes.
Grace had showered and changed into jeans and a soft gray T-shirt, then spent most of the day chatting with Jean, exploring his photos and his garden, and being generally happy she was about to get answers.
She’d barely looked at me since this morning—since she’d asked me if I was single.
Single? Me?
Fucking hell, what other option was there? There was no time for dealing with a woman when I worked as hard as I did. No point in risking every ounce of stability I’d found since Carissa, just so I could have someone to… to… to hug me when I was upset?
Brain chemistry, Garrett. That’s all it was last night.
The car came closer.
“He’s here,” I said.
Grace crossed the room to join me at the window. She stood close enough I could smell the pear-scented shampoo Jean had found for her. My hand reached for the small of her back. But I stopped it before it found its landing zone and pulled it away.
Not now.
The driver’s door opened.
Pursed lips. Dark wavy hair and stubble. The Russian from Grace’s café.
Protect your woman.
I spun, seized Grace’s arm, and pulled her behind me.
“Garrett!” she yelped as she stumbled.
“Stay back.” I was already moving toward the fireplace, scanning for a weapon. An iron poker leaned against the stone. I grabbed it. It was light, but the hook would do the real damage. I positioned myself between Grace and the front door. “Jean! Get out!”
Jean appeared from his study, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“The man who accosted Grace at her café. He found us.”
Jean’s eyebrows rose, and instead of running for his room or the back door, he approached the window. “That’s Dmitry.”
I tightened my grip on the poker, still holding Grace behind me. Had I been wrong to trust Jean? “I don’t like this, Jean.”
He moved to the door, one hand heading for the doorknob, the other palm facing out, as though to calm me. “Galahad, Dmitry is the expert I contacted about the egg. I’ve known him for fifteen years. He’s legitimate.”
“Garrett?” Grace’s hold on my forearm was tight, and her voice wavered as she spoke. “We should hear him out.”
Unless he had a gun, a stun gun, or backup hiding somewhere, I could handle the situation.
I did trust Jean. He’d proven himself during our years in Afghanistan, and while the man had touched Grace without her permission and gotten into a shouting match with Tristan and me, he had intel Grace wanted.
“All right.” I nodded to Jean, who opened the door.
Dmitry stepped inside, and his gaze landed on me and the poker immediately. He stopped. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t lower the poker. “Ah.”
“Thank you for coming, Dmitry.” Jean stepped between us, his hands spread wide. “It would appear you’ve met Galahad and Grace?”
He lifted his hands to attempt to prove he wasn’t a threat. “I have.”
I pointed the poker at him. “You grabbed her and called me a—what was it you said?”
“Those were mistakes.” Dmitry’s English was accented but clear. “Ones I deeply regret.”
One of Grace’s hands slid up my arm, and she whispered to me, “I want to find out about my grandmother.”
I held my position. Watched Dmitry’s face. Watched his hands. He wasn’t reaching for anything. Wasn’t tensing to move. I lowered my weapon, but didn’t put it down. “Start talking.”
Jean ushered Dmitry toward the worn leather chairs. I stayed on my feet, while Grace sat on the sofa near the fireplace. After a moment, I moved to stand beside her. Close enough to reach her if things went wrong.
Close enough to see the hope in her eyes.
“I’m a private investigator,” Dmitry said. He settled into his seat like someone who’d been taught to never slump, his shoulders and knees square. “I specialize in art recovery. Eight years ago, a family in Prague hired me to find a missing Fabergé egg.”
“The Hen with Sapphire Pendant?” prompted Grace, giving away too much detail already.
Jean gestured to the kitchen. “Would anyone like coffee? Or snacks?”
Grace and Dmitry nodded to the old archaeologist, while I kept my eyes on the Russian.
Dmitry returned his focus to Grace. “I was contacted by the family of Marcel Dubois, who was a key figure in the French Resistance during the occupation in the early 1940s.”
Grace leaned forward slightly. I tracked the movement, noted the way her fingers had curled around the arm of the sofa. She was buying every word. As I would have expected her to.
“The family told me the egg was in their possession in Marseille as late as 1944,” Dmitry continued. “Marcel gave it to a woman named Delphine?—”
Grace sucked in a quick breath.
“—who was traveling to England. He said it was for safekeeping, as he feared for his life.”
She reached out, as though searching for my hand. Fuck if I didn’t grab it.
“I spent years searching,” Dmitry said. “Dead ends. False leads. All I had to start from was a photograph of a young woman standing in front of a bombed building in Marseille. ‘Delphine’ written on the back. No last name. No other records.”
“The photograph you dropped at my café,” Grace said quietly.
Dmitry nodded. “Three months ago, a jeweler in the US posted on an online forum, asking about a possible Fabergé egg.”
“My jeweler.” Her hand tightened in mine.
The jeweler? If that was how Dmitry had found her, was that how the other man had found her, as well?
Was Brandon Caulfield—the authenticator in London—not the source of the leak?
If so, how did the other man know about London?
How did he know to follow her and search her bag for the egg?
I had to point the team at the online forum where the jeweler had posted and check if there had been any leaks about London.
“I have Internet alerts set up for all of my active cases. The jeweler provided sufficient detail that I suspected it was about the second Imperial Egg, and I was able to trace the post to your hometown, to the jeweler, and then to you.” Dmitry spread his hands.
“When I walked in and saw the photograph on your wall, I knew I’d finally found Delphine.
And I lost my composure. For this, I apologize most profoundly. ”
“Why didn’t you just explain?” Grace asked. “Instead of grabbing me and demanding answers?”
“Because I’m an idiot.” Dmitry’s mouth twisted. “Eight years, and suddenly she was right there. I panicked. And…” He gestured toward me and shrugged.
Sure, blame me, buddy.
Jean returned with coffee, setting cups on the low table. He sat next to Grace, and the two men took their drinks.
“So Jean called you,” I said, bringing the room back to the Russian’s story. “After we arrived.”
“Yes. He knew I often take contracts to find Russian artifacts, so he thought I might be able to help.” Dmitry looked at Jean. “It was a surprise to both of us, because I’ve been searching for this egg for so long.”
Jean shook his head. “If I’d known you already met, I would have given you more details about him.”
Grace let go of my hand, clearly growing too comfortable. She stood and told me, “I’m going to get the egg and the letter.”
She didn’t move. Was she asking me if it was all right? Or was it a warning not to attack the man while she was gone?
I gave her a short nod, regardless of which question she was silently asking.
Once she was out of the room, Dmitry spoke to me in Russian. “I’m not a threat. I can provide my credentials, and I invite you to check my background.”
Without letting go of the fireplace poker, I said, “Show me.”
He stood, reached into a pocket—I shifted my balance in preparation—and pulled out a card from his wallet. “Here’s my ASIS certification.”
Rather than accepting it, I pulled out my phone and sent Arthur a photo with a voice memo: “Check this guy out for me.”
The thumbs-up emoji was his immediate response. Maybe he’d look at it, maybe he’d use Merlin or Morganna again. Either way, I wasn’t relaxing until I had the information, and Dmitry knew it.
Grace returned, the earlier stress gone from her face. The smile was back, whether genuine or the mask she wore to hide things. She placed the disassembled egg on the table.
Dmitry’s eyes lit up. He reached for the hen, but stopped. “May I?”
Grace nodded.
He didn’t pick it up with his fingertips. He cupped his palm under it and let it rest there, turning it slowly, his eyes moving across the surface. It was more scientific than I’d expected. He murmured in Russian, “I’ve found you.”
Jean watched him with a small smile. “Dmitry was a curator in Saint Petersburg, before he was a man who finds things.”
“Inventory rooms only.” Dmitry continued studying the hen. “I was very junior.”
“You’ve handled other eggs in the past, yes?” Jean asked him.
“Two.” Dmitry set the hen down with infinite care. “And for a long time, none.”
Grace handed him the letter. “Jean found this inside the hen.”
“Not the surprise it originally came with,” Dmitry muttered as he studied the letter.
“Surprise?” asked Grace as she took her seat.
Apparently, I’d done more research than her. “Whatever would have originally been inside the hen.”
Jean leaned forward and picked up Grace’s golden hen. “In the first Fabergé egg, it was a tiny crown.”
“This confirms what the Dubois family told me.” Dmitry looked up from the letter. “Delphine is your grandmother?”
“No. Her name was Diana, and she was British.”
Dmitry leaned back, glancing at the letter again. “Did she have a twin? A sister?”
“She was an orphan. No siblings, no parents. At least, none we know of.”
“During the war, British intelligence sent agents into occupied France to work with Resistance cells.” Dmitry set the letter down. “They took cover identities including French names, French papers.”
Grace sagged forward an inch, and I fought the urge to reach for her hand. “You’re saying my grandmother was a spy?”